Some Like It Sinful (Hellion's Den) (17 page)

“Hawksley. Are you always in this mood directly after breakfast?”

“After breakfast, luncheon, tea, dinner . . .”

His head lowered to nibble at the pulse pounding at the base of her neck, his fingers already busy with buttons at the back of her gown.

“The servants.”

He brushed her mouth with a light kiss. “I locked the door when I entered.”

“You are quite wicked.”

Lifting his head he slowly, methodically pulled down the sleeves of her gown.

“Oh, I have not yet begun to show you precisely how wicked I can be,” he assured her.

Holding his gaze, she allowed a mysterious smile to curve her lips. She had always been a swift student, and Hawksley had taught her a great deal of passion over the past few days.

She intended to prove just how much she had managed to learn.

“Perhaps it is my turn to be wicked,” she murmured.

Brushing her hand downward, she tugged at the buttons already straining beneath the thrust of his arousal. Then, still holding his stunned gaze, she allowed her fingers to encircle his rigid erection.

Hawksley sucked in a sharp breath, his fingers grasping her shoulders as if to keep himself upright.

“Bloody hell.”

“Do you not like this, Hawksley?” she teased, running a finger up to the moist tip.

He growled deep in his throat. “Hellfire, if I liked it any more I’m not sure I could bear it.”

She ran her fingers back down to the base of his manhood, delighting in the feel of his violent shudder.

“And that? Do you like that?”

“God,” he groaned, abruptly propelling her back against a newly scrubbed wall as he was hastily lifting her skirts to her waist. “One of these days, kitten, I intend to devote an entire day to seducing you.”

Her eyes slid closed in pleasure as his clever fingers parted her thighs to employ his special brand of magic.

“But not today,” she murmured on a sigh.

“No,” he rasped, his lips brushing hungry kisses over her upturned countenance. “Most certainly not today.”

Several hours later Hawksley was seated in his library, while Clara was happily training the maids in the proper method of cleaning the windows. He wanted to protest. It still pained him to think of her performing even the slightest household duty. But accepting that she preferred to feel as if she was accomplishing some task or another, he held his tongue.

Soon enough she would have a husband and children to keep her thoroughly occupied.

Children.

The most ridiculous thrill of anticipation raced down Hawksley’s spine and he gave a disbelieving shake of his head.

Hellfire. When did this happen?

When did he become a gentleman who no longer thought of his evenings devoted to gambling and debauchery, but instead tingled at the thought of curling up on a sofa with his wife at his side and silver-haired children with emerald eyes playing upon the floor?

Madness was the only explanation. Utter madness.

Aimlessly crossing the room toward the desk, Hawksley abruptly stilled at the faint rustle outside the window. The noise might have been caused by anything. A curious cat. A branch scraping the window pane. A passing servant.

Hawksley did not pause, however, as he slid silently toward the desk to collect his loaded pistol and then moved to a shadowy corner that possessed a clear view of the window.

He did not have long to wait as the curtains billowed from a sudden draft and a small, decidedly human form appeared in the room.

Hawksley lifted the pistol quite prepared to shoot. He would hesitate to pull the trigger if it were his own life at risk, but not with Clara in the house. To keep her safe he would do whatever was necessary.

He aimed toward the narrow chest, his finger upon the trigger, when he was struck by the blinding pink coat. What sort of self-respecting thief would wear something so ridiculous?

The answer was, of course, no thief would be seen in such a travesty.

Only one man would dare.

Lowering the pistol, Hawksley forced himself to count to ten before stepping from the shadows and confronting his intruder.

“You do know, Biddles, that one day you will crawl through the wrong window and discover a bullet lodged in your arse?”

Dusting his hands with a lace handkerchief, Biddles offered him a sly smile.

“The danger, of course, is half the enjoyment. Windows are always so much more interesting than doors.”

Crossing the room, Hawksley replaced his pistol in the drawer and leaned negligently against the corner of the desk.

“It must make it rather interesting when you escort your wife about town,” he drawled.

“Oh, Anna is always up for a bit of sport.”

Hawksley gave a bark of laughter. He did not doubt for a moment that the spirited Anna would readily crawl through a window if she chose.

“She would have to be up for a bit of sport, wed to you.”

“True enough.” Tossing aside the handkerchief, Biddles stabbed him with a knowing glance. “Let us hope Miss Dawson possesses an equal taste for dashing gentlemen.”

Hawksley narrowed his gaze. “I beg your pardon?”

The pointed nose twitched. “You have asked her to wed you, have you not?”

“How the devil . . .”

Biddles tilted back his head to laugh with rich enjoyment.

“Really, Hawk, I am not blind. There are only two reasons for a gentleman to possess that look of vacant astonishment. Either you have just been run over by a carriage or you are in love.”

“Love? Do not be . . .” The growling words trailed away as Hawksley encountered his friend’s shrewd expression.

Blast. Who was he fooling? Of course he was in love.

Why else had he kept Clara with him even when he could easily have handed her over to the care of Santos? Why else had he used his last grout to hire servants to keep her happy? Why else had he been near sick with tension until she had at last agreed to become his wife?

At least his madness had a name.

Watching Hawksley grapple with the stunning truth, Biddles at last arched a brow.

“Well?”

“Bloody hell.”

Biddles moved forward to clap him on the shoulder, a grin splitting his face.

“I fear that it happens to the best of us. And if it is any consolation, you have chosen well.”

Hawksley’s slowly smiled. “Yes, I have.”

Biddles gave his shoulder a squeeze before stepping back. “Now, let us see if we can rid London of Lord Doulton so that you may wed in peace.”

Hawksley gave a lift of his brows, knowing that smug tone all too well.

“Ah, you managed to speak with someone within the War Office.”

Biddles produced a painted fan to waft it gently beneath his nose. “I did. And I happened to pick up a few very interesting details.”

“What details?”

The pale eyes glittered. “Did you know that Lord Doulton had a young cousin who was an ensign in the ninety-second Foot?”

“No.”

“A tragic story.” Biddles assumed a sorrowful expression. “The poor boy served in both Spain and then France before he was lost during an ambush and his body never recovered.”

France? Hawksley narrowed his gaze. He was beginning to suspect where Biddles was leading him.

“Tragic, indeed.”

“And oddly enough, he was upon a secret mission when he and two other soldiers were attacked by bandits.”

“What sort of secret mission?”

Biddles snapped his fan shut. “Guarding a very large wagon filled with priceless artwork bound from Paris to the Vatican.”

Hawksley nearly choked. He had hoped for some sort of connection between Lord Doulton and the Vatican. He could not have ever have dreamed that it would be so tangible.

“Damnation,” he breathed. “Do the officials know what happened?”

“The actual events seem to be suspiciously obscure. The soldiers set out from Paris, but they had only traveled a few days when it appears that they were attacked and the wagon went missing. Unfortunately, two of the soldiers were shot in the back of the head while they slept, and the third had completely disappeared after what appeared to be a terrible struggle.”

Hawksley shuddered. By any standard it had been a brutal attack. Only the most heartless sort of bastard would shoot a man while he slept.

“Appeared to be a struggle?”

“The authorities have never been entirely satisfied with the notion that bandits could outwit three trained soldiers and make off with the bounty, not to mention the fact that none of the artwork has made an appearance upon the European auction blocks.” Biddles’s thin features abruptly hardened, putting paid to his usual air of frivolous indolence. Anyone who dismissed Lord Bidwell as a silly buffoon made a dangerous, and at times deadly, mistake. “Still, with no evidence to the contrary, they could hardly brand a soldier as a traitor and a thief. Not without considerable proof.”

Hawksley slowly smiled. His friend had done well. Very well.

“We now possess a legitimate connection between Lord Doulton and the stolen artwork.”

“Indeed,” Biddles agreed without hesitation. “For a nefarious man it would have been a simple matter to await his turn at guard duty during the night and shoot his companions in the back of the head. Afterward he could have created the appearance of a struggle and taken off with the wagon.”

Hawksley paced across the room, refusing to allow himself to be distracted by his instinctive hatred for a man capable of such cold-blooded murder. Instead he forced himself to consider what must have occurred once the treasure had been so brutally taken from the soldiers.

“From there he must have smuggled the goods to England.”

Biddles gave a nod. “According to Santos, it would not have been a difficult task.”

Hawksley abruptly halted his pacing, a frown marring his brow. “So what happened to the treacherous young cousin?”

Biddles gave a lift of his hands. “Either he is in hiding or . . .”

“Or he is yet another victim of Doulton’s greed,” Hawksley finished in hard tones.

“Yes.”

Hawksley clenched his hands at his side. “It is time for the bastard to pay.”

Biddles moved to stand before him, his expression uncommonly somber.

“I agree, but we must recall that for all his sins Lord Doulton is a peer of the realm,” he pointed out. “We cannot have him simply hauled off by the magistrate.”

Hawksley smiled without humor. He now had all the proof he needed. Lord Doulton was responsible for Fredrick’s murder. And for that he would pay.

“Oh, I have no intention of bothering the magistrate with such tedious rubbish. A lead ball through the heart is much more efficient.”

The pale eyes narrowed at Hawksley’s grim tone. “And might very well have you transported. I do not believe that Miss Dawson would care overmuch for the climate in the colonies.”

Hawksley regarded his companion in astonishment. There was a time when Biddles would not have hesitated to deal out justice. With his own hands, if necessary.

“You cannot be suggesting that Lord Doulton not be punished for his sins?” he gritted.

“Of course not.” There was a steely determination in the pale eyes. “But this is no longer a simple matter of murder or even theft. Lord Doulton has entangled himself in war crimes for which he might very well be hung for treason. I suggest we turn the matter over to the War Office.”

Hawksley gave a growl of frustration. He had dreamed too many nights of having his hands around Doulton’s throat to abandon his bloodthirsty desire with ease.

“You believe they can see him hang?”

“If nothing else, they can certainly ensure that he is driven from England and never allowed to return,” Biddles temporized.

Turning, Hawksley slammed his fist onto the mantle. “This is not the revenge I sought.”

Biddles laid a hand upon his tense shoulder. “I understand, Hawk, truly I do. But now you have more to think of besides tasting Lord Doulton’s blood.”

Hawksley abruptly whirled about, his eyes narrowed. “If you say my damnable position—”

“I was thinking more of your fiancée,” Biddles interrupted. “As much as it might rub at a gentleman’s pride, you must now halt and consider what would happen to her if you were somehow harmed seeking out Lord Doulton, or worse, charged with his murder. Your first loyalty must be to her.”

Clara.

The seething fury slowly eased as Hawksley allowed the image of sweetly feminine features to rise in his mind. It was astonishing. For months, nothing had been allowed to interfere in his fierce campaign to punish the man responsible for Fredrick’s death. He had been ruthless and without mercy to any who stood in his way.

Now a tiny slip of a girl had reminded him that his life could be more than guilt and regret and anger.

She had reminded him that he had a future.

One he never thought to look forward to with such eager anticipation.

“I suppose you are right, damn you,” he muttered in resignation.

Biddles offered a smile of approval. “Justice will be served, that I promise you, Hawk. In fact, if you will give me a few hours, I will assemble the appropriate gentlemen and we will bring our evidence to them this evening.”

Hawksley heaved a wry sigh. “I never thought the day would come when you would advise caution, you sly ferret.”

“Like you, I now have a great deal to lose by rash pride,” he said simply.

Hawksley gave a slow nod.
Something to lose
. Yes. Biddles was right.

“Very well. We will do this your way.”

“You will not be sorry.”

Giving Hawksley a firm slap on his back, the slender nobleman turned to head back toward the window. In amazement, Hawksley watched as he slung his foot over the ledge and prepared to disappear.

“Biddles,” he called in amusement.

“Yes?”

“There is a perfectly good door just across the room.”

Biddles flashed a sly grin. “Anna would fear I was cheating upon her if I did not return home with a rip in my breeches and my boots marred by mud. Besides which, she enjoys lecturing me upon my disreputable habits. I cannot possibly disappoint her.” He gave a wave of his slender hand. “Until later.”

 

 

Clara studied the closed door to the library with an unfamiliar sense of indecision.

As a rule, she disliked the thought of intruding upon Hawksley. She knew intimately just how aggravating it could be to be in the midst of some deep thought or calculation and be interrupted. Which was precisely why she had always preferred to live on her own.

And she most certainly did not wish Hawksley to believe that he was about to tie himself to a woman who could not allow him so much as a few moments’ peace without demanding his attention.

Still, she sensed that something was troubling Hawksley. It was unlike him to remain closeted alone for so long. Or to ignore the scents wafting from the kitchen.

And while she wished to respect his privacy, she could not bear the thought of him sitting alone and brooding when she might possess the means to comfort him.

Pacing the hall for several long moments, Clara at last sucked in a deep breath. She was being a nitwit.

Reaching out, she pushed the door open and crossed to the center of the library. Even in the shadows she had no difficulty spotting Hawksley, who stood beside the window staring into the darkness.

“Hawksley?”

“Yes?” he murmured without turning.

“What has occurred?”

There was a moment’s pause before he shifted to regard her with a curious smile. “And why should you believe something has occurred?”

“You are never late to dinner when there is the scent of shepherd’s pie in the air.”

His expression abruptly lightened as a smile curved his lips. “Ah, you know me too well, kitten.”